


plus d'adoration de sauveteur

by distractionpie



Series: adoration de sauveteur [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Point of View, Art, M/M, Original Character-centric, POV Original Character, Party Banter, Playlist, Tags to be added as relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4836536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distractionpie/pseuds/distractionpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various extras and prompt fills for the adoration de sauveteur verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Multimedia

_[My writing playlist for this fic.](http://8tracks.com/e-m-m-r/adoration-de-sauveteur) _

_____

_Concept art for Dorian and Julien's earlier encounters:_

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* 

_I deliberately avoided giving too much physical description of Julien so people could use their imaginations but I did do a quick drawing of him for my own benefit (although I accidentally did make him look about 12 - a reflection of my drawing ability not my mental image):_

__

_*_

_Comic of the kiss:_

_ _

_(Look - having art for my fics is one of my favorite things even if I have to draw it myself - who needs talent anyway?)_

 

 

 

 


	2. Cut ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I first started this prompt I was going to write the relationship as an unrequited crush, in which Julien never really mustered up the nerve to talk to Dorian properly. Once I got going I decided to develop things differently, but this is the original ending I drafted back when I'd only finished part 1:

The words are tricky, with too many meanings and unfamiliar sounds, his common is sufficient for his duties but it vanishes around Dorian.

He looks Julien up and down thoughtfully and Julien fights the urge to fidget or preen as hope bubbles in his heart.

Dorian frowns. "Do I know you from somewhere? Were you one of the scouts Leliana sent with us to the wilds?"

The bubble bursts.

He can feel the heat flooding his face, foolish to flush like a Fereldan farm-boy, foolish to feel like this, to think that Dorian would ever have noticed him.

He shakes his head. A lie, but a worthy one, surely the Maker will forgive him this. “Sister Nightingale,” he offers, tipping his head upwards to where she dwells, the beginning of a lie about delivering a message, but he doesn't even need that much, Dorian just nods and thanks him, apparently having been waiting for such a summons. He crosses the library to the stairs and Julien curses himself for picking a lie that would fall apart so quickly as he makes a hasty retreat so as to be out of the tower before Dorian returns.

He knows from the gossip that the Inquisitor plans on dealing with the red templars on the Storm Coast soon and Julien finds himself hoping he'll be assigned to the Western approach. Perhaps the breadth of two countries will be sufficient distance for him to forget this folly. If not, there's always that bottle of Grey Warden liquor Ferdinand and Estelle found that they've been waiting for the excuse to drink.

*

“It was a hope but now it's a hurt,” Cole says. “You don't see him Dorian. You see me even when other people don't, but you don't see him, even when he's right there, real… why?”


	3. Prompt: the Inner Circle's reactions to Julien (Party Banters)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was prompted to write some more about the the Inner Circle's reactions to Julien - this is not exactly in depth, I may take a stab at that later, but it's something...

Sera: Bad enough when the cow eyes were one-sided. How're you supposed to kill baddies if you're too busy being all mushy and shite trying to impress that scout of yours?

Dorian: Funnily enough, killing 'baddies' is how I made such an excellent impression on him in the first place.

Sera: Urgh.

*

Sera: Figured you to go after someone a bit more nobby – or is his knob just that good? *gleeful laughter*

Dorian: I rather thought that knobs of either variety were outside of your field of interest.

Sera: Urgh, yeah. But he's alright, your guy is. Not a bad shot either, so don't go messing about or you might get an arrow in your arse.

*

Vivienne: You might wish to mind yourself with that young man of yours, darling. The rank and file is full of prodigious gossips, not at all ideal if you wish to be discrete about your personal affairs.

Dorian: I hadn't realised you were so invested in my social dealings. Did you perhaps miss your calling as a society matron?

_Then:_

Inquisitor: Well he is Orlesian, Dorian. Doesn't this solve your argument over whose country is superior?

Dorian: *Huffs*

_(Vivienne slightly approves.)_

_OR_

Inquisitor: I'm sure Dorian knows how to manage his own business.

Dorian: Well I suppose you and I haven't known each other all that long.

*

Varric: So Sparkler, the scouts have gotten a little frosty with you lately...

Dorian: Really? I hadn't noticed.

Varric: Things didn't go so well with that guy you'd taken up with?

Dorian: *sighs* That's one way of putting it.

Varric: Well, watch your step, okay? Some of Nightingale's lot are tricky bastards.


	4. Prompt: Dorian finds Julien's gift

Dorian is exhausted when he finally returns from the Storm Coast. Battling red templars is a gruelling task under the best of circumstances, and battling them in damp caves is a cruel and unusual way for the Inquisitor to have him spend his time. To follow that almost immediately with dragon hunting... well he's beginning to wonder if he hasn't done something to earn her ire. ****

He bathes and changes into clean robes but Dorian's chamber is cold – not by southern standards, but enough to be a nuisance to him – so he lights a fire in the grate and retreats to the library to pass a few hours while his room warms up.

When he arrives though, he finds that his chair is already occupied. Not, fortunately by a person attempting to spite the evil Tevinter magister, but by a small cloth wrapped parcel. Which is not to say that it is not part of an attempt against his person, merely that whatever it is clearly involves more creativity than the usual belligerent sneering.

Dorian begins with a thorough dispelling, although he can't sense any magic around the object, and then picks up his pen and pokes it. A risky move, but he's reasonably confident that anyone who wanted him dead would pick something a little tidier than causing an explosion in the Inquisition library. If nothing else, Dorian has no idea how long the package has been there and if it were anyone from Tevinter they'd be more efficient, and anyone from around Skyhold out to get the magister would pick somewhere with less potential for collateral damage.

Poking it unwraps the parcel somewhat, revealing it to contain what appears to a heap of some sort of animal scales. Dorian can feel a headache forming behind his brow. This, he decides, requires an expert.

Dorian has been trying to get used to dealing with the Tranquil since joining with the Inquisition. They were rare in Tevinter and most people avoided contact with them, but apparently the southern circles were much quicker than those back home to employ the rite and the Inquisition had attracted a rather large number of them, some had come with the Redcliffe mages, others approaching the Inquisition for work after somehow hearing that they offered a sort of safe haven for Tranquil – somewhere they would be protected from abuse and harassment, and treated like people. Dorian couldn't pretend that he didn't find the Tranquil unnerving, both for what they were and for how much they reminded him of what might have been done to his mind had Dorian's father had his way, but he found he'd grown comfortable around Helisima, who was his companion in near constant occupation of the library. Anybody meddling in the library is almost certain to have been observed by her, and furthermore, she's likely got the training to identify the mysterious scales.

He shows her the scales, nodding over to his chair as he explains his query.

“-generally I find the notion of having parts of dead animals left in my seat a little revolting, but these appear to have been cut from whatever creature they belonged to and cleaned up, which is not the typical way of doing such things.”

“They are wyvern scales,” she says and Dorian raises his eyebrows slightly. Wyvern scales are hard to come by, he's been struggling to obtain some for his research for some time now, and as such carry a certain amount of value, even if Orlesian laws heavily restrict their sale. Certainly not the sort of thing any halfway from stupid person would squander as part of an idle trick.

“Well they'll be useful at least,” he acknowledges and Helisima nods. The gesture looks unnatural when she performs it and Dorian resists the urge to recoil. Tranquil are people too, he reminds himself, even if they can't feel upset at the way people respond to them it's still in poor taste to be blatant about it.

“You require them for your research. The young man questioned library personnel at great length on the topic.”

“Asking about my research? A young man?” Dorian queries, somewhat unnerved by the thought that some unknown person might be asking about his research.

“Yes. He had questions about your interests and the properties of wyvern scales. One of the former-apostates explained their alchemical properties to him and he asked if you might find them useful. A week ago he returned and placed them on the chair.”

“Could you identify this man?”

Helisima shrugs, another gesture that just looks wrong when she does it. Dorian wonders how she'd come by the habit of feigning such expressions, before deciding he likely didn't want to know. “He was of a similar height to you,” she says. “He had an Orlesian accent. He was wearing a scout's uniform with the cowl up so his face was obscured.”

Dorian supposes it could be any of a variety of people, the Inquisition forces are hardly small in number, but there is one face that appears in his mind – the Orlesian scout that he's encountered twice now while out with the Inquisitor. Julien. Dorian had noted him because he'd meant to question the Inquisitor about the practicality of employing scouts who struggled so much over speaking in common but not considered him beyond that until their second encounter, when the Inquisitor had rushed to aid her scouts against a gang of Orlesian deserters. Of late the mistrust of Dorian among the Inquisition has settled down into a kind of resigned tolerance, people would prefer he was elsewhere but there weren't willing to question the decisions of the Inquisitor and Dorian had accepted that was the best he was likely to get. Dorian honestly couldn't recall the last time somebody had looked at him the way the scout, Julien his alarmed comrades had called him, had when Dorian had conjured him a simple fire. Battered and shivering and no doubt dazed from being choked, bruising dark around his neck, common decency dictated that Dorian offer him a healing potion. He'd had plenty to spare – the Inquisitor had recently increased the number of potions taken as standard on field assignments, but he was still in the habit of rationing them strictly. He'd let the scout's team-mates tend to him, had been about to leave when it occurred to him that they might benefit from a fire, and conjured once without a second thought. In the south people often flinched from magic, even within the upper echelons of the Inquisition, but when the injured scout had looked up at Dorian, with surprisingly focused eyes given his condition, there hadn't been a trace of fear in his expression, only unabashed gratitude. He'd smiled brightly, openly at Dorian, leaning towards the flames with a small satisfied sigh. Dorian had left the scouts behind, departing with the Inquisitor to make the most of the remaining daylight while they stayed behind to make temporary camp, but the memory of Julien's face had stayed with him, and he'd sustained the fire spell as long as his focus had allowed, telling himself that it was an interesting academic exercise to gauge his own abilities at holding onto magic over distance and for extended durations.

Perhaps Dorian assumes too much though. He still isn't even wholly sure what the purpose was of leaving the scales in his alcove, something apparently selected with Dorian's interests and research pursuits in mind, but without any sort of explanation which rather undermines any attempt to seriously speculate on their source.

Still, if he encounters Julien again then Dorian will be sure to test his theory and slip into conversation that a scout had made the most baffling of deliveries to his workspace – what little Dorian has seen of the man so far suggests that his reaction to such an observation might well be answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anybody has any suggestions as to what they think Varric might nickname Julien I'd love to hear them!


	5. Modern AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I came up with this while I was trying to figure out what Julien would be like in a modern au and how he might meet Dorian as a way to flesh out his character in his head, and once I had this idea I liked it enough to keep scribbling bits down.

It's evident that teenager managing the tourist information desk hadn't comprehended in the slightest what Dorian had wanted when he'd requested a ticket for an 'in-depth' guided tour of the city. Not surprising really, since the only way she could have acted more of a bored adolescent stereotype would have been if she'd been actively popping gum while speaking to him.

Dorian suspicions had first been aroused upon seeing the rest of the tour group – several garishly dressed elderly couples with bulky cameras who were oohh-ing and aahh-ing at the market's architecture, and a few families with children who looked to be far more interested in their phones than in Orlesian history.

His theory is confirmed when the tour guide, a freckled young man who'd introduced himself in Orlesian and then heavily accented common, though all Dorian had registered was a name which began with J, had lead them down The Avenue of Her Reflective Thought without so much as a mentioned of the antics of Empress Amiee in explanation for the turning of the statues or the area's unfortunate odour.

Dorian isn't really listening to the talk, which seems to do nothing more interesting than point out well known attractions with historical descriptions that Dorian would have found simplistic when he was ten, but he can't help but react when the guide announces, “And now we come to the place de fioritures, famous for being final resting place of the infamous Emperor Gratien de Chalons, who was entombed under the square.”

“And yet there have been six studies in past year alone, with findings which contradict that belief,” Dorian points out. “It was even on the front page of Acta Historica Arcanorum. They found his head buried under a parking lot in Denerim.”

The tour guide flushes, stammering a vague acknowledgement before hurriedly moving the group along, and Dorian gives himself a mental pat on the back. Most likely the man been given a script to memorise and parrot back, with no regard for or understanding of the true history of the place.

Still, the colour in the man's cheeks suits him and when they pass La Tour de Cœur Dorian interrupts the spiel to call out, “Is it not the most pointless building in Orlais?”

“It is very popular with tourists,” the guide replies politely. “Many people like to take photos with it.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “That doesn't make it useful. It cost a small fortune, took hundreds of people nearly two years to build and serves no function.”

The man frowns, clearly having not anticipated Dorian arguing his point. “People like La Tour, what other purpose is their for art?” he pauses, brow furrowed. “Or if by useless building you mean construction in which case you might want to think of le Miroir de la Mère.”

Dorian bristles. “Le Miroir de la Mère is an important historical site, evidencing the decline of Emperor Reville and it is vital supporting evidence for what we understand about the perceptions of the arcane during the early to mid Blessed age.” What sort of nonsense is in this man's script, that he thinks to turn Dorian's perfectly legitimate arguments about pointless architecture into an attack on an emblem of magical history?

Unexpectedly, the young man rebuts, meeting Dorian head on with only a hint of uncertainly in his voice. “But so many records of it are unclear. Did Revielle truly believe it could draw his mother across the veil? In which case it is useless because he failed. Was it perhaps a monument? Or a mockery of her vanity? There are many theories that it was to be for divination, which is another set of rites altogether!” The young man gesticulates wildly as he makes this point. “Evidence from court records shows that Revielle was mad, but more evidence found in 9:74 Dragon suggest that is was a conspiracy started by his brother. The confusion about it's origins means the pool is evidence of nothing, but there are indisputed records showing it's construction required the removal and destruction of large statues depicting the heroes of the second and third blight, who are lost to historical record now but might not have been if those statues remained.”

“Or the statues might have been destroyed by weather or war or some other factor in the intervening years,” Dorian argues instinctively, though he's reeling at the surprisingly coherent argument as to why the mirror not might be deserving of the historical value it's often perceived as having.

“Yes but...” the young man trails off, glancing at the rest of the group. More than a few of them had wandered off over the course of his debate with Dorian and he ducked his head, clearing his throat and dropping the topic in favour of rounding up his remaining customers and shepherding them across the plaza towards the square of the famous summer bazaar. Dorian is expecting the group to turn left into the winding alleyways that were once the poorer part of the city and birthplace of some of the greatest revolutionaries of history, before gentrification had turned the area into a hipster paradise, but instead the tour guide leads them around the edge of the market place and off to the right.

He knows the others on the tour will likely find further interruption obnoxious, but he finds that he's quite sincerely angry as he interjects, “What sort of tour of the city simply skips over all of the district containing buildings such as the Red House? It's rumoured to have been the residence of the true Red Jenny and her lover, the Inquisitor of the Dragon age! Surely two of the most famous people in the nation's history?”

The tour guide pauses, darting a nervous glance at Dorian and biting his lips, before ignoring him, turning away and leading the group back towards the centre.

“The final stop on our tour, the heart of Royan history, La Marie Impériale,” the man says and gestures grandly to the blocky, crumbling building.

“It's an eyesore,” Dorian points out, because he's still sore that he's paid actual money for this.

The young man shrugs. “Yes. But it's role as a distribution centre during the civil wars of the spirit age, particularly during the demonic uprising of 14:23, means it is iconic.” Dorian would argue back, but the remark was delivered in such a monotonous manner that it's quite obvious the tour guide in no more impressed by the hideous construction than Dorian, but no doubt he has a script to follow. A shame, since when he'd gone off on his passionate condemnation of Le Miroir de la Mère, he'd lit up with eloquence. A defence of La Marie Impériale would undoubtedly have been wrong, but Dorian suspects that watching the man sincerely try would have been enjoyable at any rate.

He tunes out the rest of the tourist spiel, it's nothing he already doesn't know, and finally their guide indicates the tour is over, asking people to pass their maps back to him.

Dorian's been on enough of these tours to know that there's an expectation that one will tip at the end, so he's surprised when the guide ignores his more tractable clients fishing through their bags and purses and makes a beeline for Dorian.

Not a good sign. Dorian hopes this isn't about to turn into a confrontation.

“You gave very interesting comments,” the man says to him. “Very different from the usual tourists.”

Dorian cannot tell if he's being mocked or not. Strangely, the man's tone and expression seem quite sincere – Dorian's comments were interesting, but this hadn't been the reaction he'd anticipated. “A very civil way of putting it...ah...”

“Julien,” the tour guide prompts. “And they were. Much more interesting interruptions than most who just ask, 'Where can I buy a postcard?'”

“Julien,” Dorian acknowledges, then introduces himself. “Dr Dorian Pavus, University of Minrathous.”

“You are a historian?” Julien asks, startlingly eager

“Thaumaturgist, actually,” Dorian corrects. “Though History and particularly arcane history is a passion of mine.”

“Really? Thaumaturgy is rare in Orlais, but what books there are make it sound very interesting.”

Dorian raises his eyebrows. “You've read about Thaumaturgy? I thought books on it were still forbidden to the public under Orlesian chantry law.”

Julien ducks his head, glancing about nervously as if expecting the templars of old to leap out at any moment and declare him maleficar. “I… that is, they aren't banned, just restricted. If you are doing research you can get a permit to the library of Val Royeaux's collection of restricted books, and there are many restricted history books for the safety of not damaging the texts, but they are all in one collection and once you're in...”

Dorian laughs a little bitterly. It might have been centuries since the south imprisoned their thaumaturgists, calling them mages and shutting them in towers, but while they might tolerate those who worked in the field, they were still so repressed about actually encouraging the study – as if out of fear of the demons of myth. Still, the image of the young man in front of him illicitly pouring over the sort of texts that Dorian was assigned for study as a child was an entertaining one. Still, he had other things to do than listen to his tour guide recount minor academic misdemeanours.

“I'm afraid the tourism office made an error when they recommended I take this tour, and I really should go and speak with them about that before they close. I'd requested an in depth tour illuminating the deeper history of this city – which this was not.”

“I know,” Julien says, inexplicably flushing a deeper shade of pink. “I wondered if… ah...” He waves his hand in a gesture encompassing the square. “As you noticed, only the most well known attractions, not those of historical interest. You mentioned the Red House… it is a very interesting part of history but we are not allowed to show it on the tour because… well...”

“Because despite clear historical records the wider community still likes to pretend that the Inquisitor was neither elven nor queer?” Dorian asks. Ignorance at it's finest – people found it far more tasteful to believe that their divinely appointed saviour was a virginal andrastian chantry sister who had prayed her way through her difficulties, not a dalish elf who had been rather more inclined towards slicing her enemies to pieces with a battleaxe and then having wild sex with her equally elven girlfriend, before retiring to a life of social action and petty crime against the nobility which had lauded her as a saviour.

Julien nods. “Yes. My manager calls the facts heresy. But there is a small museum dedicated to Red Jenny and her organisation there, it's closed for rearranging right now, but I have a friend who works for the security team, if you would like a tour.”

Dorian raises his eyebrows. “A private tour?” he says, putting careful emphasis on the word private and watching the other man flush again. It really does complement his features most superbly, colouring from the tips of his ears, across his cheeks and down his throat. More intriguingly he's smiling, not that sort of awkward smile that Dorian would expect from somebody who was being polite about his flirtation, or the amused smile of somebody who's taking it as a joke. No, this smile looks a little bit pleased and a lot interested.

Perhaps this morning hasn't been a complete waste of time after all.

“Oui… Ah… I mean… I am sure my friend will be happy to let you see anyway, but I have been to the museum many times and I… I hoped that perhaps you might like to continue our discussion.”

Dorian smirks. “A personal museum tour and some historical debate with someone apparently handsome _and_ intelligent,” oh and Dorian is definitely hoping to find out exactly how far down that blush spreads, “When do you get off?”

Julien's brow furrows. “There is one more tour group booked, but I will be finished by three?”

Dorian nods. “Then we can pick up our discussion outside the Red House at, say, half past three?”

“Yes,” says Julien, and then, “Good, because I thought of another argument in favour of La Tour. You talked about the efforts it took to build it as a bad thing, but surely that effort meant employment, and so it is a positive contribution to society?”

A wholly unexpected laugh slips from Dorian's lips. Oh, this will be fun...

 


End file.
